


Of Fur and Flames

by theidwalks



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Demon Stiles, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn, Virgin Sacrifice, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:01:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theidwalks/pseuds/theidwalks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a virgin sacrifice for a demon summoning is everything it's cracked up to be. Terrifying and horrible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Fur and Flames

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally no idea what I'm doing (First fic, be gentle). I just wanted a demon stiles that wasn't a supernatural crossover. I love ruthless/dark stiles being a snarky bamf. I know some parts are terrible. Criticisms and comments (and nubile virgin sacrifices) are greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoy. I have horrible timing but pray I will have updates however large or small once ever week or two. Unbeta'd and butchered by my horrible grammar till further notice. Also I have not idea how to warn for things. But blood, gore, and panic attacks ahoy!

          

 

                      Stiles is vaguely aware that he’s surrounded by a ring of fire. The light keeps reflecting in his eyes and the heat is making him kind of dizzy. He’s also painfully aware that he’s about to die…the “perfect holy death” of a virgin sacrifice to some sort of twisted cult of kate-level crazy witches that get off on simultaneously boring and scaring him to near death with extensive mundane  sermons on the sanctity of blood and the symbolic properties of impaling his fragile still beating human heart on the biggest scariest most painful looking swords he has ever seen in his entire adolescent life. And he is really too good looking to die.  Still he can’t help the snark if only for the satisfaction of disrupting their precious, precious ceremony.

“I’ve seen creepier, older, men with bigger swords. Really you should all be embarrassed. Yours is kind of small.”

“Let the purge commence. Begin the sacrifice!” He’s officially panicking now pulling at the restraints at his wrist because seriously, him and his stupid freaking mouth. Why can’t he ever just shut up! He thinks it’ll be funny if he goes into cardiac arrest before they even start the ritual and miss out all the bone chilling fun. He imagines their confused disappointed expressions and laughs because it’s really not funny at all. And suddenly there’s banging of drums, and humming chants and the high priest must be Old Mc’Donald because there’s a procession of chained farm animals being brought to a pedestal and Mc’Donalds coming closer and pulling back the sword and , oh God he’s going to be sick. He’s going to throw up and he can barely hear the noise coming from the animal when the blade goes clear through to the other side and he forgot to close his eyes and suddenly he can’t and when Mc’D’s pulls  the sword out the blood is still spraying out like a water nozzle and managing to catch his shirt and spatter his face. The blade is being lifted up and he’s officially having a panic attack flailing helplessly at the restraints and imagining himself on the receiving end of the gore. The cold metal swiftly comes down and with that painful image he throws up harder than he ever has in his life. And for once he’s so glad that the panic has shut off his airway and his vision is blacking out because there are still more than a few more not-so-woodland creatures to be slaughtered and if he’s lucky, really really lucky. He’s going to wake up in a soft warm bed because this is all just a really bad nightmare and he kind of maybe desperately wants to wake up now.

                        He vaguely remembers dreaming of inconsequential things. However he also vaguely remembers making a deal with a polite man in a business suit with a disarmingly honest smile that he’s pretty sure is the devil because people that nice are always evil, always. Case in point.  Allison. Even though she has gone somewhat back to her old albeit now guilt-filled self. But that may have more to deal with the fact that the terms consist of stiles freedom for the deaths of psycho cultists. And he’s fine with that, really just fine. Except that it makes him get that twinge in the back of his neck that tells him something fishy and wrong is going on. But there’s no further discussion or contracts and thus no fine print. Also he’s about to die so they shake hands while the guy disappears with a smile that shouldn’t come so naturally to someone who just casually arranged for people to be killed. 

He doesn’t really have time to worry about that or anything else for that matter because the next thing he knows he’s taking in a huge gulp of air and a bucket of something really warm is thrown on him and it kind of feels good because it’s like taking a hot shower on a cold night and the only source of warm is the ring of fire that he’s not too intent on getting a closer look. The buckets keep coming and when he licks his lips to quench his thirst it tastes kind of like metal. His eyes shoot open and he’s horrifyingly coming to the realization that he’s being bathed in blood…and he liked it! “Oh that’s just wrong!”  It sends a shudder through him and he feels like throwing up again because he can smell burning flesh.

            The noise disappears for a moment so everything goes eerily quite. Stiles isn’t quite sure which he hates more because now he can think again that this is real. He can remember stories of better times. A place he once knew where the daily threat was Mr. Harris. A place where his father didn’t look at him like a stranger and a disappointment. Where the chaos and fear that is his life wasn’t sucking him dry at every other corner. He always knew he’d have a preternatural death but somehow always managed to convince himself otherwise if only for the sake of his sanity. Except now someone’s slowly driving a glowing sword into his heart and he’s screaming and begging and crying profanities for literal anything to save him or make the pain stop.

 The last thing he sees before his eyes roll to the back of his head and he begins to rock against the restraints with the coming change is a moon as red blood. His own blood rising to a boiling point under the skin that’s beginning to dry out and crack like mud. The blood sacrifice is being pulled into him like a magnet. Drawn in through the cracks of his skin and providing the fuel for the change. His teeth growing impossibly sharper as his face extend into a stout muzzle. Ears growing pointed and long in a goblin like fashion. His nails fusing with bone and growing into wicked claws in sync with the enormous horns growing on top of his head that are starting to comb up, out, and over behind him. His hair is growing out into a coarse fire filled mane that only burns brighter when his eyes turn glow and dance with the red, yellow, and orange of hungry fire. He offhandedly registers that he’s growing larger when the manacles holding him shatter like glass. When everything is done he’s 10 feet of impressive muscle and intersticed armor plated skin. He feels like a volcano. A livewire of bursting energy waiting to explode.

“Come forth and obey my command. Belaru-!!!” He doesn’t get a chance to think about what he’s doing because there’s suddenly rich delicious blood gushing down his throat. Coating his tongue as he swirls it around his mouth probing for more.  It feels so perfectly good and natural for his teeth to be buried into the juncture of McDonalds neck and shoulder. Literally sucking the lifeblood out of him is too good to wonder why he can’t control himself. Taking a backseat in his own body but he can’t find a reason to complain. He can’t seem to find a reason to want to anyway when the vicious ball of ice that’s been slowly forming in his stomach has been turning into a warm-gentle hum. It’s not long before the only thing left in his bloody maw is an emaciated husk. He unclamps his jaws and raises his head as it falls to the floor devoid of anything that would signify it used to be alive. Like some weird metaphysical rubber band the ice cold hunger comes back with a vengeance. Stronger, darker, infinitely more vicious and greedy when presented with the potential for more.  He bares his teeth in a  dagger toothed smile at the cult who’ve been rooted to the spot watching wide-eyed. He braces an arm across his chest and a blade slides up along his forearm with a sharp shink that snaps everyone out of their reverie. They begin to chant seemingly unhurried words, futile magic spells hitting him with bindings and enchantments that slide or break off like silly string. Foolish mortals.

He makes sure to take his time. Relishing in the sound Crushing and slicing through bone and muscle. Rending flesh with his horrific maw and dagger like claws like it’s creative pastime.  Severing torsos and sending heads rolling with a swipe of his arm blade. The panicked desperation of his enemies only makes him hungrier. He enjoys the way he can show them that resistance is futile.  His whip like tail thrashing and piercing with reckless abandon. He thinks it was over too soon. This generation is nothing like the old. It’s embarrassing.  He stands in a scorching battlefield admiring his work as the blood draws itself along the ground to him like a living creature. His mouth hangs open as the magic in the air gets pulled inside himself. It’s good to feel full. All warm and tingly. It’s like being in love. It’s a few minutes later that awareness comes back to him. The conscious knowledge of what he’s just done hits him. He doesn’t have it in him to feel sorry for them though he thinks that he should. He looks at his large clawed hands feeling hopelessly lost and confused. He thinks he must be in shock but doesn’t know if that’s possible. He doesn’t even know if he can get his body back. He stays there a while thinking and sorting things out unmoving for what feels like forever or no time at all. 

                        It’s not long before he feels eyes on him. He can feel the fear and trepidation in the air. Confusion and despair. Uncertainty. He wonders how long they’ve been there. How much they saw him do even though it didn’t feel like him doing it. If they can tell if he’s still stiles.  If they watched him get stabbed. If they stood by and did NOTHING while he was being sacrificed. He looks down at the sword surprisingly still stuck in his chest and feels inexplicably angry and the cold hunger comes back when he yanks the sword out and jams it to the hilt into the ground. His nostrils are flaring and he’s taking deep heated breaths trying to calm himself because something’s not right and he feels hollow again so hollow but he’s not a murderer so everything just needs to Stop! But he can still feel their stupid eyes burning holes in him. Making his hackles rise in defense till suddenly he can’t take it anymore. He looks up at them and roars. “Don’t look at me!” But the sound that comes out is terrifying. A hundred different voices that aren’t his whispering and shouting the phrase at the same time like an infinite repetitive echo on repeat. Impossibly deep and shrill and everything in between at the same time. It makes his own knees go weak and he collapses in on himself pulling his knees to his chest with his arms while resting  his head on his knees. His tail whips lazily back and forth while the blade slinks slowly back in on its own accord. “Go away” he whispers. Afraid of what he’ll do as the ice in his chest grows more painful. It has the opposite affect when hesitant footsteps start to draw closer. Their heartbeats impossibly loud in his ear.

“What’d you do with stiles” someone asks in a shaky voice.

“Begone.” He says in a deep voice. Completely inhuman.

“Please.” He realizes its Scott’s voice. But he sounds different than he usually does. He blames super senses.

He doesn’t say anything because he didn’t do anything. He didn’t ask for this. He actually fought tooth and nail against it. Now he’s too dangerous to be around people. He clenches his fists and lets out a heavy breath when the empty cold starts to turn malicious and angry till it threatens to take over him. He lifts his head to meet the glowing eyes of the wolves and wonders what they see and it’s suddenly too much. The fire bleeds back into his eyes as he goes to stand back up and all he feels is resentment and disdain for the people who let him die. Who abandoned him. His lips part in a cruel smile.

“Why Scott? Don’t you recognize me anymore?”

Scott seemed at a loss for words till he sees the cloaks and body parts of the cultists

“Y-You did this. You killed them Stiles!”

“They killed me first.  It was only fair I return the favor.  It was a mercy killing really. I didn’t even have time to enjoy myself.” He replies with a casual shrug. “Y’know somehow I always knew it would end this way. I didn’t know how exactly but I always knew. Tell me guys what were you doing when they started to cut me open hmm. Did you even know-.. “

Derek attacks stiles from behind while he’s seemingly distracted but stiles was expecting it and already has him pinned to the ground by throat. Spurred on by the instinct to protect their alpha the betas flank him while Derek claws diligently at his arms gasping out. 

“You’re... not... stiles.”

Stiles undulates his tai threateningly towards the betas.”OH. Now that’s a tricky question, Derek. But I suppose you’re right. The stiles you knew is quite dead...In fact.” Stiles lifts him easily above his shoulder to point to with a clawed thumb behind him at the stake. “He died right over there Derek. Screaming and begging till he broke. Until he became... me. Now, tell me Derek how does it feel to burn your family alive. Isn’t that what happened to your family Derek. You burned them all up for a pretty face. All those innocent kids screaming while the fire swallowed up their eyes. To think it was all your fault. Guess everyone was right to think you were a murderer. You knew it was only a matter of time before it happened all over again. Didn’t you. You’re not good enough to be an Alpha. Your own pack thinks you're pathetic. He shifts him around to show their faces. “Look at them. They don’t even care if you die right now. Not one of them has so much as twitched to save you.  They want me to kill you. Causes if I don’t you’re just going get them all killed. So stop fighting it Derek. “At this Stiles tosses him to the ground with a thud. “You’ll never be whole. You’ll never have a family. You don’t deserve happiness. You don’t even deserve to live. So give up already.  Just lay there and let me help you die.”

            Stiles draws back his claws for the killing blow when suddenly someone has him from behind in a bone crushing hug.  A jolt courses through him giving him a burst of clarity from the haze of anger and empty cold.  Slowly the fire fades from his eyes and he’s left peering into the hopeless depths of Derek’s gaze. There’s so much going on in those brilliant pale eyes that he wants to cry. There’s so much struggle and pain and so little hope he realizes that there’s so much he needs to say. He wants to say sorry for everything, it’s not your fault, and it’s all lies you deserve to be happy but the pull is getting stronger so what comes out instead is a stilted “P-pro-mised.” and he knows it’s not enough. Not nearly enough but the fire’s starting to flicker back on and he’s so far out of time because he should already be dead. 

He knows he won’t be able to stop it a second time. Knows that the next time the cold comes the pull will be too strong to resist. He’s got to protect everyone so he closes his eyes and lets the bloody tears fall before he lets out a blood curdling scream and frantically starts to rip the meat off his own bones. Tearing at his face, back, chest, and throat like a man on fire as he stumbles away from them. He hits the ground screaming and rolling as he slowly reverts back to his human form till he’s too weak to move and everything abruptly stops except his gurgling breaths. His last moments are spent hoping his dad forgives him. Hoping Derek will forgive himself. Hoping Scott won’t do anything too stupid. That they’ll keep going. Maybe even make it out of this living hell they got stuck in and find a smeckle of happiness. Hoping, yeah, hoping he’ll see mom soon.

Even after his heart stutters to its final stop everyone’s still paralyzed with shock. Unsurprisingly Scott’s the first one to make it to where Stiles lies in the pool of blood being greedily sucked up by the earth. He reaches out with shaking hands to cradle stiles face. Adrenaline and disbelief make him feel numb inside as he takes in stiles wide fearful eyes and the almost pained smile plastered on his face. It doesn’t feel real. 

When the reality hits him it’s hard to see through the tears to close stiles eyes properly and when Erica starts sobbing about how “Batman’s not allowed to die so he has to wake the fuck up right now.” it becomes entirely impossible because it just hurts so much. The pack’s never lost anyone. Not like this. Not stiles. Who was never a saint but hell if he wasn’t a hero. Always afraid but still brave enough to selflessly if not recklessly do the impossible when it’s needed most. Too determined and too stupidly loyal. Too brave and too humble and definitely too much for anyone to handle. Too vengefully cutthroat and all kinds of dark cunning underneath unassuming dangerous. The world’s never going to glow like it used to.

            He looks up and sees Derek standing a few feet away looking broken and lost like he was never expecting this but hell, he’s still standing so Scott thinks he’s doing okay. What he doesn’t know is how Derek made it all these years after the fire, after Laura, after Peter and still be able to squares his shoulders, put on his blank face like  the world hasn’t  just been swept out from under his feet again, and announce that “We have to go.”  He tries to say it again, firmly. “We have to-” but his voice is thick with emotion that he can’t hide. Instead he goes to stiles side and carefully lifts his broken form, clutching him tightly to his chest while determinedly not looking at his face. Afraid of what he might see “Let’s go.” And they do. They keep going because they're going through hell and there's nothing else they can do. Because it’s what Stiles would do. What he made them promise they would do.

**Author's Note:**

> Brutal scrutiny is appreciated :)


End file.
